


to my very bones

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I don't think there's much angst but tagging just in case), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And idiots in denial, Arya and Jon are bros, Emmy Hug, Ew, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Jon and Sansa are actors, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon outs his feelings on TV oops, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, NOT a kit and sophie fic, YEAH I called GOT "Dragon Show", absolutely not, because that's what it became, inspired by "I love that girl to my very bones", we love being petty we love throwing shade, with a touch of Ben Wyatt chaos- if you know you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: Then the words come, unbidden, words he’s spoken to her so many times in a different way than she perceived them.“I love that girl, to my very bones.”Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are like family. They're best friends, the person they've come to rely on after working so closely together on their groundbreaking (if a bit badly written) fantasy show, where they played brother and sister. But they've always wanted to besomething moreoffscreen. Does Jon truly only love Sansa as a sister? Well, he's about to make his feelings very clear— at Chicago Comiccon.





	to my very bones

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello!_ Here's the fic nobody asked for inspired by Kit's lovely words about Sophie yesterday. And the Emmy hug. Anddddd a few other things that have been said throughout interviews and such! 
> 
> I want to be clear that I 100% absolutely do NOT ship real people, no way in hell. This fic is NOT about Kit and Sophie, who truly do seem to have a sweet sibling relationship. In my opinion it's absolutely disgusting and reprehensible to ship real people. This fic is about the fictional characters Jon and Sansa.
> 
> ANYWAYS check out [the accompanying photoset on tumblr as always,](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188353611386/to-my-very-bones-a-jonsa-fanfic-fic-summary) come talk to me there!

The Crowning Bar is low lit and empty on a Wednesday night. It’s Jon’s and Sansa’s last night at the attached hotel, their last night in Los Angeles. Dawn approaches, but neither can find the desire to return to their rooms.

“I’ll miss you,” Sansa says, not for the first time, tongue swirling around the little red straw in her fourth Cosmo.

They said everything wasn’t going to change, but it had. On a night not too dissimilar from this two years past, they sat in Sansa’s hotel room in Belfast and promised they’d stay the same. It had been her last day of filming. She’d cried as the producers, writers, and fellow actors sang her praises, taking turns to share fond memories and anecdotes from the last six years. She hadn’t been able to stop crying until Jon wrapped her in a hug, whispering a vow in her ear: “Nothing’s going to change. Not between us.”

That night they repeated the vow to each other, minibar bottles and chocolate wrappers between them on the snow white duvet. They hadn’t slept, unwilling to waste a moment left between them. They knew they were lying. 

They shared this same space, an exquisite sweetness and painful denial, every time they reunited since.

Here they are again, and Jon finds it unbearable to look into Sansa’s bloodshot, brilliant blue eyes as she says goodbye once more. “Why do you have to miss me?”

“You start filming in three weeks… And I’m going to be in Vancouver for six months at _least—”_

“Not yet. You’re going to Vancouver in two months.”

Sansa blinks. It isn’t like him to be argumentative, to _insist,_ but she gets under his skin in a way no one else can. Especially tonight. Especially the last week, the two of them in L.A. for the Emmys, spending every minute they can together. Her mouth curls into a sad smile.

“Jon, have I said I’m so proud of you?”

“Aye…” She’s said it in one way or another in every conversation between them since he landed the Marvel role. “And I’m proud of you. You know that.”

“I love the way you talk.” She sucks back the last third of her drink, hollowing out her cheeks in a way that has Jon nearly going cross-eyed. She places the empty glass on the low table in front of them and leans back into his chest, tucking her head underneath his chin. He wonders if she can hear his heart pounding. “It reminds me of home.”

_You’re home. _His hand flexes where it rests on his thigh, aching to touch her. Aching to let her _know. _

“You’ll always be my family,” she whispers, hot breath tickling his neck.

A painful reminder— it stays his hand and his tongue. They played brother and sister on television, and it was easy to tell himself it was just fiction, just _acting, _to begin to summon the courage… until she says things like this, and real life crashes over him.

“I mean, my family will be your family,” she mumbles. “I know it’s been hard… everyone’s so busy… but we love you. You don’t have to worry.”

_Is that what you think I’m worried about? _He knows what the other Starks are to him. He only worries about what he is to her.

“I know. I… I love you too.”

“All of us?” Her voice goes high pitched, her long lashes brushing his skin as she tilts her head to look up at him. He shivers.

“Of course, all of you.” His mouth suddenly feels dry. He needs another drink. _No. Say it. _“But you… _you, _Sansa…”

A gentle hiccup interrupts him. Jon’s hand automatically finds its way to her back, drawing soothing circles there. She groans, her hands moving to cradle her stomach.

“Do you feel sick?”

“A bit… maybe…”

“Sweetheart, I think we should go to bed.”

_“No.”_ Her voice is full of fervor, and she pulls back to look at him with those sleepy, lovely eyes. “Not yet. Please, not yet.”

So they stay on the low couch of The Crowning Bar until first light, wrapped around each other, unwilling to let go.

* * *

Sansa wakes in a huge, soft world of white. She opens her eyes slowly, the bright light from the windows burning her eyes, and sees the expanse of the California king bed and its many white pillows stretching beyond her extended arm. On the nightstand stands a tall glass of water and a small bottle of what looks like aspirin or some kind of hangover pills. Right away she knows Jon left them, and that he's already gone.

For a few minutes she tries to piece together their night, the things she said. A heavy pit lays in her stomach, a queasy feeling like she’s said or done something she’d regret while sober. _It can’t be that bad, _she tries to reassure herself. Jon was with her the whole night, she's sure of it, and he wouldn’t let her embarrass herself.

But what if she said something to _him?_

No. No way. Jon makes it abundantly clear he thinks of her as a sister, and even drunk Sansa isn’t stupid enough to jeopardize that.

_Is that true, though? _Lingering glances and sweet terms of endearment suggest Jon may feel otherwise. There is the way space seems to shrink whenever he's around. Then there is the way he acted towards her boyfriends past, transforming from the sweetest gentleman to rude, curt, and angry. _He was being protective… the way _brothers _act._

But they aren’t related, no matter the roles they played, no matter the way the Starks adopted him. Jon lost his mother in the third month of filming the first season of the show, all those years ago. The experience bonded the two of them, as well as bonded him to her family. The Starks’ ancestral mansion in York became the place Jon spent holidays—whenever the family of actors was off location and could get together, that was.

All of the Starks have acting careers, from her father who starred in _The Lord of the Rings _to little Rickon who has his own show on the Disney Channel. Her mother has a distinguished theater career, and Bran took a break from acting after his show—where he was a genius prodigy solving a C.I.A intelligence infiltration— got cancelled. Yeah, Bran’s show was campy, but who is she to talk—her show was called _The Dragon Show. _Besides, Bran’s enjoying his time in university. Robb’s award-winning bodyguard show is on its fifth season, Theon's pirate movies are smashing successes, and Arya’s on her fourth assassin role. _This time, a Russian assassin,_ she likes to clarify.

Thinking of her family, Sansa reaches for her phone and sends Jon a text before she does anything else.

_Sansa, 11:43 A.M:_ Thanks for taking care of me. Safe flight to Chi-town.

Then she scrolls through the messages from the Starks. She rolls her eyes at the duplicate texts from Robb, Arya, and Theon. For the last few days all they’ve been sending are links with headlines like:

**I’m Not Crying, You’re Crying! Jon’s and Sansa’s Reunion Warms Hearts!**

**The Hug That Deserves an Emmy!**

_Idiots,_ she smiles fondly.The Starks all know how silly and off-base these sites could be, how they could blow the smallest thing out of proportion. And yet…. Her stomach tightens as she looks at picture after picture featuring every angle imaginable of the hug she shared with Jon.

Her nose pressed into his hair, that secret smile on her face. For a moment she forgot where they were, that they were surrounded by people and cameras. All she could feel was joy at seeing Jon after two months of separation.

That’s how she thinks of it—separation. There's the time with Jon, and time without Jon. No wonder none of her previous relationships worked… how could they, when Jon is so deeply ingrained in her? When he is her definition of happiness… when _he _is who she wants?

She looks at the clock, suddenly misty-eyed, needing to get out of bed before she risks settling into it, feeling sorry for herself. She has to pack, check out, and catch her flight to New York City. She wants to make it home in time to watch Jon’s interview.

* * *

The panel at Comic Con is easy—despite how reserved Jon usually is, so unfit for this life of interviews and strong personalities, everything became easy after conquering Saturday Night Live—until they mention Sansa.

“How is Sansa Stark? The tabloids are buzzing about your Emmy hug! And is it true you two spent a week together in LA?”

Before he can answer, the gigantic screen behind him lights up with a slideshow of pictures of him and Sansa over the last week. Having breakfast outdoors, walking down Rodeo, at the Emmys afterparty. The paparazzi were especially ruthless, irritating the two of them, but Jon maintains a tight smile on stage. A few clips from interviews are interspersed throughout the pictures; his voice booming through the speakers, “We’ll always be close. The experience we shared… yeah, we’ll always be close.” Then Sansa’s musical voice: “He’s my best friend.” His throat tightens when a picture he’s never seen before explodes onto the screen, a picture from last night, hazy through the The Crowning Bar's windows at night, with Sansa’s leg crossed over his and a pink drink in her hand.

Applause ripples through the audience as the screen goes white again. “Would you say Sansa’s the cast member you’ll miss working with most?”

Jon decides to redirect. They always ask about Sansa, of course they do, but he isn’t sure if he can handle it right now. Not after he had to leave her _again,_ not when he doesn’t know when he’ll see her next. Not after he almost told her.

“I really missed Robb when he left. The season he was on the show was so much fun. We had the whole family together.”

“That’s so sweet,” the interviewer gushes. “So you’re still friends with Robb Stark?”

“Yes. He’s like a brother to me.”

“And Sansa certainly teases you like a real life sister!”

Laughs. Jon laughs too, though he’s aware of how tight his mouth feels.

“Which of your former cast members from _The Dragon Show_would you be excited to work with again?”

“I appreciate all my castmates,” Jon answers diplomatically. “They’re so talented and I’d be lucky to work with any of them again.”

“Of course,” she replies smoothly. “But if you had to pick one?”

Internally, he sighs. _Might as well answer truthfully._

“I’d really like to do another role with Sansa—”

Jon has to stop talking as an earsplitting cheer goes through the hall. “That would be great,” he continues when the noise dies down. Then, on impulse, speaking honestly, speaking to her: “But the characters we played were so strong, would people just see Aegon and Alayne, the brother and sister?”

“Well, we know one thing, we’d love to see you two together on screen again! Wouldn’t we?”

A cheer rises in response, the interviewer smiling with eerily white teeth. “Now, _off_ screen… would you say your relationship is like brother and sister?”

_“Oooooh!” _

Jon ignores the noise from the audience and scrambles to come up with a reply. It’s been insinuated so many times, but never asked this directly.

“We’re like family,” he finally says, clunky and awkward.

The interviewer takes mercy on him. “Is it true she’d tease you about how long it took to do your hair?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t get it.”

That earns him a laugh. “And we know she teases you about your height…”

Another slideshow plays behind him—Sansa ruffling his hair as they stood side by side at so many public appearances throughout the years. 

Jon laughs. “She’s only two inches taller!”

“Whatever your relationship, we’re excited to see what you two create next.”

“Thank you.” Jon smiles. Then the words come, unbidden, words he’s spoken to her so many times in a different way than she perceived them.

“I love that girl, to my very bones.”

A hush overcomes the auditorium. The interviewer blinks at him. Jon suddenly remembers her name is Alice. He has a feeling he’ll be reading her name a lot after this royal fuck up.

“Like a sister?” she prompts, and when Jon doesn’t answer quickly enough, she continues, “Or as _something more?”_

“Yes! I mean, no. No to your, uh, other suggestion. _Yes, _like a sister…” His tongue is too thick in his mouth. He's sweating, he knows, he's aware of the cameras in a way he’s never been before.

“The Starks are my family,” Jon says, hoping he is being tactful by drawing the focus away from just Sansa. Or would they call that “evasive”? _Oh shit. _Sansa has always been so much better at press. _Is she going to be angry? Have I embarrassed her? Oh fuck…_

* * *

_Arya, 2:45 P.M:_ OH MY GOD.

_Arya, 2:45 P.M:_ JON

_Arya, 2:47 P.M:_ I have literally… NEVER… seen you talk so much

_Jon, 3:10 P.M:_ Please shut up about it.

_Arya, 3:11 P.M:_ never

_Arya, 3:11 P.M:_ i’m watching it on youtube on repeat

_Arya, 3:11 P.M:_ “sometimes I feel like I might need glasses”

_Arya, 3:12 P.M: _"what does love meeeeean anyway"

_Arya, 3:12 P.M:_ “IS THERE A BIRD IN HERE”

_Arya: 3:14 P.M:_ “who hasn’t had gay thoughts???” lmfaoooo jon you made my LIFE

_Jon, 3:46 P.M:_ Do you think I embarrassed Sansa?

_Arya, 3:47 P.M:_ you only embarrassed yourself, trust me

_Arya, 3:48 P.M:_ does this mean you’re finally gonna tell her

_Jon, 3:49 P.M:_ There’s nothing to tell.

_Arya, 3:49 P.M:_ oh come ON

_Arya, 3:50 P.M:_ you literally just told the whole world

_Arya, 3:51 P.M:_ gendry says tell her or else he will. and frankly he’s never been sexier

_Jon, 3:53 P.M:_ I almost told her last night.

_Gendry, 3:54 P.M:_ OH MY GOD!!

_Arya, 3:55 P.M:_ sorry gendry’s looking over my shoulder he’s the worst

_Arya, 3:55 P.M:_ tell her now

_Jon, 3:58 P.M:_ On the plane, turning my phone off. Thanks though.

_Arya, 3:58 P.M:_ anytime bro. safe flight or whatever

* * *

_Arya, 7:54 P.M:_ Sis. SISTER. Sansa. please tell me you watched jon’s comiccon panel

_Sansa, 8:34 P.M:_ Just landed, in the cab on the way home… why do I have like a million texts about it?? My twitter keeps crashing

_Arya, 8:35 P.M:_ omg okay don’t look at ANYTHING yet, not until you watch!!!

_Arya, 8:36 P.M:_ i’m on my way to your apartment with popcorn, I want to record your live reactions

_Sansa, 8:37 P.M:_ No

* * *

Sansa watches the train wreck unfold from her couch, biting her fingernails, a habit she absolutely hates, but she essentially lost control when the interviewer asked Jon, _“Like a sister?”_

She watches Jon turn beet red, watches him fumble over his words as he digs himself further into the word vomit hole.

Sansa wasn’t able to catch Jon’s interview live—her flight was delayed and traffic was deadly from the airport. So she watches it ten or so hours later, wondering all the while what Jon is doing right now. She picks up her phone, wondering if she should call him. Wondering if he would want to hear from her.

Her phone is still in her hand, consistently lighting up with notifications from people who aren’t Jon, until a series of knocks descend on her door.

She rolls her eyes as she rises from the couch, although she’s secretly pleased Arya ignored her and came over anyway. She needs to talk about the mess of emotions churning in her chest, and there’s no one better than Arya; her sister who she trusts implicitly, and Jon’s good friend too.

But it isn’t Arya who stands on the landing of her New York City penthouse. It’s Jon, with a bouquet of lilies instead of a bowl of popcorn.

* * *

Sansa stands in the open doorway, hair damp and a few shades too dark, in oversized sweatpants slung low on her hips and a t-shirt so worn he can see through it. Jon swallows and averts his eyes, looking only at her face, unwilling to take anything more from her today.

Her mouth is slightly open, her eyes wide with undisguised shock. _At least she opened the door._ The self-loathing part of him that’s been on overdrive since Chicago wouldn’t have been surprised if she shut him out.

She speaks first. “Jon, _how…_ why are you here?”

“I had to come. I couldn’t leave things…like that.” He holds out the flowers. “For you.”

A moment later she takes them, cool fingertips brushing his, and steps aside to let him into her home. This small act of forgiveness and welcome releases a dam inside him, a torrent of words that pour out of him as she closes the door behind him.

“Sansa, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, if I made you uncomfortable… I’m sorry I couldn’t watch my damn mouth. I hope I haven’t fucked things up for you.”

_“Jon…”_ Her eyes go soft and sympathetic, taking his hand with the one that isn’t holding the flowers. “I’m fine.I’ve been worried about _you._ I promise, you haven’t messed up anything.”

“Are you sure? Have you talked to Margaery yet?” he asks, referring to her manager. 

“No. I haven’t talked to anyone yet. But I’m sure it’s okay.” She wrings her hands in the way she does when she’s nervous, and Jon hates himself for causing it. “I mean, it’s nothing new, every time we’re in public together the press has a field day. We’ve always come out the other side.”

“This is different.”

She turns slowly from where she stands by the kitchen counter, having just deposited the flowers. Her face is open and afraid. Her voice is quiet. “Is it?”

“Aye.”

She lifts her chin, a challenge, but he’d expect nothing less from Sansa Stark. “How?”

He speaks slowly, deliberately, giving each word the weight it deserves. “I meant what I said. I love… I love you.”

_“How?”_ The word is a rasp the likes of which he’s never heard from her mouth. “How do you love me?”

The rest of the question hangs unspoken between them. _Like a sister? _

_“Unlike_ a sister.” He closes the distance between them, reaching her in time to watch her lips open to suck breath into her lungs. His hand lifts of its own accord to trace the open seam of her mouth with his thumb. “Can I show you?”

She nods and it’s the last thing he needs, her permission, her soft “yes” as he lunges forward to take her mouth, to taste her, _finally,_ to show her just how much he loves her.

* * *

_Unlike a sister, _he said, and _oh _how unlike a brother he feels just now, his mouth stealing her breath, his tongue parting her lips, and she gasps, letting him in, her hands fisting in his curls she’s longed to touch for _so_ long—

“Sansa.” He says her name like a prayer. “Sansa, I… for so long…”

“Me too,” she whispers, and that makes him moan low into her mouth.

His hands are huge and hot on the bare skin of her waist, sandwiched between her and the counter, her shirt somehow rucked up. His lips turn biting, a desperation she’s never seen from him as his mouth moves over her jaw, and he is warm and hard as he crashes into her as if he can get any closer, and she should be embarrassed at the sounds leaving her but it feels too good for thinking.

One hand moves lower, just an inch, and it sends an electrifying throb between her legs.

_“Jon…”_ She grabs his face and pulls him back up to her mouth, needing to ask him this way, unable to find the words. He rolls his hips against her, once and then again, a frenzied motion meant to relieve him as he licks into her mouth, but she feels him hard against her thigh and all it does is make them both hiss.

“Sansa… _Sansa…” _

She opens her eyes for a second, just a second, but it’s enough to see his, dark and animalistic in the low light, unrecognizable, yet—_Jon._ She closes her eyes and cries out as he yanks up her shirt, the rough pad of his thumb thrumming a nipple while his tongue drags over her collarbone.

_“Fuck, _Sansa… I have to taste you.”

* * *

Her mouth tastes like strawberries and cream, he swallows each of her delicious moans gratefully, and it overtakes him, fills his nostrils and coats his tongue, and he’s absolutely frantic and desperate for it, he _needs _to taste her cunt.

He thinks he may have said something, he isn’t sure, his words are flowing freely like they never have before, not a product of his mind but a product of his need and his love for her. His thumbs hook into the band of her sweatpants and drag them down first, his achingly hard cock rutting against the silk-clad heat between her legs before he slides her panties down and sinks to his knees along with them.

He coaxes her open, palms cradling her thighs and guiding one leg over his shoulder, and he can’t resist swiping a finger over her slit.

_“God,_ Sansa, you’re so fucking wet for me.” It’s an openmouthed kiss against the soft flesh of her hip as he dips one finger into her, then two, nearly going cross-eyed at the heat and the wetness and the tight grip of her.

“Please, Jon, please please _please!”_

He doesn’t know what she’s asking for, he doesn’t even think she knows, but he knows she wants _more _so he lets himself be greedy too, moves to lick her the way he wants to, the way he’s fantasized about for years. He opens his mouth over her cunt to suck at her lips, at her folds, at her clit, then flicks his tongue over it until she screeches and pinches his shoulders and begs him to stop, so he drags his tongue over her slow until she’s near sobbing and begging for _more _again, her hips arching into his mouth, chasing his tongue. He gives it to her, willingly, gladly, sucking her clit until she screams, and he is drowning in her.

* * *

After, as they lie tangled together on her sheets, his fingers combing soothingly through her mussed hair, Jon chuckles. “Maybe I fucked up so I’d have a reason to come to New York.”

The thought warms her, but Sansa can’t resist teasing him. “I think you’re just bad at interviews.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffs against her neck. “That was the best interview of my life.”


End file.
